


Where There Remains But A Mark

by courtneythenerd



Series: Your Words on My Skin [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Henry Laurens' A+ Parenting, I'm new here, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-11 00:37:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12311184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courtneythenerd/pseuds/courtneythenerd
Summary: John is getting frustrated. His words don’t make any sense at all.





	Where There Remains But A Mark

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first LAMS fic. I have no idea if it makes any sense at all, but here you go! *flings fic into your face* 
> 
> Title is based on "John, the Beloved," by Sufjan Stevens. Otherwise known as, "The song that seems to have literally written about Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens." 
> 
> This fic isn't nearly as depressing as that song, though.

John is getting frustrated. His words don’t make any sense at all.

Yes, John knows that the words aren’t necessarily the _first_ words your soulmate says to you. They could be the fifth, the thirtieth, or the thousandth. All they really mean is that your soulmate--and _only_ your soulmate--says them to you at one point.

John knows this. He’s read enough about it. He’s eavesdropped on enough prestigious conversations about it. John has done all the research he can about the strange words everyone gets on them at one point. He knows how this is supposed to work.

But that knowledge only makes his words all the more confusing: _Laurens, do not throw away your shot._

How did _this_ end up being John’s words?

Why would his soulmate call him by his last name? That’s just . . . odd. It doesn’t feel natural. Or familiar or intimate. Surely, someone as close to him as a soulmate would become familiar enough to call him “John” instead of “Laurens.” Yes, most people John interacts with call him “Laurens,” but that’s because most people are mere associates or authority figures.

And “do not throw away your shot?” That would certainly be a part of an army instruction, a logistics conversation that involves discussions of close combat. Once again, those are instructions that could only come from a commander or a general.

John’s relationships with any authority figures or anyone in the army could never become romantic. If for no other reason, it is because all of those people would be _men_.

John can’t love a man. Not unless he _wants_ to be exiled by his friends and family.

And being exiled is probably the _best_ thing that could happen. Men who are suspected of being homosexuals . . . they don’t live very long. And the short lives they do live are full of pain and incarceration.

And then there is the life _after_ death, the one John’s heard his own father speak of his entire life.

According to John’s father--and nearly everyone else John knows--homosexuals don’t even have a _chance_ at eternal life. Homosexuals are an abomination to the Lord, and they are thrown to the pits of Hell. There’s no way around it: no negotiation, no forgiveness. No mercy.

To John, that didn’t really seem very fair. It always seems like God is a merciful God in the face of adulterers, thieves, drunkards and those who beat their wife and children. But, for one reason or another, God is _not_ a merciful God to homosexuals. In a world where God delivers letters onto your skin like witchcraft, to assign you to someone who haven’t yet met, homosexuality is the one true aberration.

It makes no sense to John.

There are quite a few things that make no sense to John. He’s learned to keep quiet about those things. Just like he’s learned to keep quiet about his words.

Lafayette and Hercules have no idea what his words say. He knows theirs: they’ve each told him in some drunken fit or some melancholy moment. You really aren’t supposed to go around sharing your words with people. It could cause complications, especially if you run into a deceptive person who will try to use them to coerce you into a relationship with them.

Lafayette and Hercules are different. They both trust him enough to speak openly about their words. And they’ve both asked about John’s several times. Lafayette, especially, has been curious, and almost a little prying. But John has kept his mouth shut, refusing to reveal his confusions. They thought he was just being dramatically secretive.

Not that John’s words matter all that much, anyway. Far as John is concerned, his words are probably wrong. He’s not sure if that has happened to anyone before, but it could start with him. John just knows that he won’t ever met anyone--any commander, solider, any _man_ \--worth risking his life for.

X

Meeting Alexander Hamilton is a blur. A dizzying, exciting, terrifying blur.

John has never seen anyone with a fire that burns like Alexander’s. He’s also never anyone talk as _fast_ as Alexander.

In a matter of minutes, Alexander blows through the prospect of revolutionary war, the dilapidated financial structure of the colonies, his goals to get a scholarship to King’s college _and_ Hercules’s pants. He even manages to piss off the prodigy of Princeton College in the process.

Every new word has a new facial expression, and every new face has a new hand movement. Alexander _is_ motion. He is boundless energy, uncapped passion, and almost ridiculous optimism.

John has never met anyone like Alexander Hamilton. He didn’t even think that people like Alexander existed.

Alex somehow coaxes John into talking about the Black Battalion. It’s another idea of John’s that few people outside of his parents, Lafayette and Hercules have heard. His father _hates_ it and nearly hates John for even speaking it.

But John cannot let it go. The fact of the matter is, the colonies’ strongest source of capital is kidnapped and enslaved African _people,_ who are being beaten, raped and murdered all so that rich plantation owners and greedy business owners can remain rich and greedy. This practice is deeply staining their burgeoning land with the blood of thousands. No one is free until _everyone_ is free: John believes that with all of his heart and soul.

If Alexander’s eyes were bright when John first saw them, they get even brighter as John discussion his abolitionist views. To Alexander, John’s is a revolutionary mind, one destined to move the world.

John is flattered, to say the least.

But, the good feeling doesn’t last very long. Because it’s right around then that Alexander says something that bothers John for reasons he can’t explain.

Alexander looks at him, eyes aglow, and gives a huge grin.

“Laurens, I like you alot.”

X

John is lying in bed thinking of it now. His fingers twitch. He wants so badly to caress the words on his side, to trace his finger over his own name.

Why did Alexander call him “Laurens?”

John could just chalk it up to it being a matter of him and Alexander having just met, but that still doesn’t really hold up. Alex called Hercules by _his_ first name. Alex even said “Marquis de Lafayette” instead of just “Lafayette.”

The only other person Alex exclusively called by their last name was Aaron Burr, but, then again, Alex already seems to have made up his mind about keeping some distance between himself and Aaron Burr.

Not that John can blame Alex. John’s never respected someone who straddles the fence the way Aaron does. It actually reminds John of something that’s in the Bible, about God not liking lukewarm people. “I spit you from my mouth.”

Wow, John _really_ does not want to be thinking about God at the same time as he’s thinking about the fact that a man said the words on his side.

 _No_ . No! Alexander Hamilton did not say _all_ of the words on John’s side. All he said was “Laurens.” The rest of the words still make no fucking sense.

And besides, _why_ is John getting so worked up? So Alexander called him “Laurens.” He can join the rest of the men who do so. Why would Alexander’s “Laurens” be any different than Hercules’s or Aaron’s or even General Washington’s? What makes it so different?

John is completely overreacting. He’s gotten so far into his head over these words. At this rate, John will probably never find his soulmate at all.

John turns over in bed, lying down on the side with the words imprinted on them. John doesn’t _want_ to find his soulmate, not if the quest will cause this much trouble. He’d much rather just have his friends.

When John finally closes his eyes, he sees Alexander’s fiery eyes. John’s own eyes fly back open. He does not sleep.

X

War comes such sooner than John expected. And moves much faster than John is prepared for.

Washington picks Alex as his right-hand man. And, before John knows it, Alex is picking John as _his_ right-hand man.

John is terrified, and he’s not ready. But he wants this.

Almost everyone in John’s life seems to want it for him, too. Even John’s father seems proud.

Well, he seems proud until he realizes that John is spending most of the war by Alex’s side. Fighting by Alex’s side, writing essays against slavery by Alex’s side, cursing out British troops by Alex’s side.

Henry writes his furious letters. John only half-reads them.

Until one in particular comes along. A few months into war, John gets a letter sent to him from his father that sounds especially frustrated.

“To receive correspondence that my eldest son is wasting his valor and usefulness to this most pivotal war is disconcerting to say the very least,” Henry writes. “To be even further informed that you seem to  have become Devoted to an increasingly Infamous Man is even more troubling.”

Ironically enough, John’s been feeling that same trouble. John certainly does not think he is wasting his skill or talent in the war, but he _is_ afraid of how close he and Alex have become. It is unwise to care too much about anyone in a war, but it is even more unwise--and dangerous--to become as attached to anyone as John Laurens has become to Alexander Hamilton.

John hates admitting it, but he starts to feel deeply worried when he is away from Alex for too long, when he can’t spot Alex on the battlefield.

The  only thing that mitigates this is that Alex seems to feel the same way. He always asks John a thousand questions if they’ve been apart.

If John thinks the letter can’t get much worse, he is sorely mistaken.

“Master Jack, I had always hoped that Nature would help direct your Growth,” Henry writes, “so that You may become the  man the Lord destined. But, if one is to take your reported Behavior as any indication, one would say that you have turned against Nature. You must Redeem yourself, Master Jack, in the eyes of your fellow men.”

John . . . he stares at the last line of the letter. The words are burned into his mind, and John oscillates between wanting to do what his father says--wanting to be the Man that Nature intends, wanting to be _normal_ \--and wanting to do whatever it is he’s _always_ done.

John knows that being who his father wants would be so much easier. But he doesn’t think he has that in him.

X

A few days later, John tells Alex about the letter.

Well, he tells Alex about _some_ of the letter.

“Who the _fuck_ does he think he is?!”

Alex paces wildly around the room they share. John can’t tell if Alex paces faster as he gets angrier or if the physical act of pacing is making his heart beat faster, thereby tricking Alex’s mind into thinking that he should be getting angrier.

Either way, John hasn’t seen Alex _this_ annoyed since .  . well, ever, actually.

John sighs. “My father--he’s always been like this. I guess I should be used to it by now.”

“No! No, no! You should _never_ get used to being spoken to this way!” Alex proclaims. “This shouldn’t be a way of life!”

John chuckles, more out of nerves than anything.

“Well, I mean, it’s been _my_ ‘way of life’ for as long as I can remember,” he says. “Don’t you remember I told you that my father never thinks anything is good enough? I wasn’t kidding about that.”

“I just--what more could he _possibly_ want?! How can he sit on his ass and then accuse you of ‘wasting your valor?’ What does that even _mean_?!”

“Well, I can guarantee you that he wants me to drop the abolition work and lead a _white_ battalion,” John says. “And he’d probably prefer if I died in battle or something like that. Just so he can tell his friends that he has a ‘war hero’ son that is actually worth respect.”

“My God!” Alex shouts the words, and John instantly becomes nervous that someone is going to poke their head into the room.

John’s not sure what he’s nervous about someone seeing, considering the fact that they are just two men complaining about a letter from home, but still.

Alex finally stops pacing, forcing himself to stop directly in front of John. He grits his teeth and glares at the floor as if _it_ had been the one to write the letter.

“Fathers shouldn’t be like this. They _can’t_ be like this.”

He’s talking to himself more than he’s talking to John. Alex’s eyes are dark, and they actually look a little wet. John takes the risk of staring at Alex before speaking again.

“Was your father like--”

Alex’s eyes, still trained to the floor, go wide. John bites down on his words. He suddenly remembers that he knows very little about Alexander: his parents, their origins, his family’s work. He doesn’t know. All John knows is that Alex came from St. Croix and that he wants to turn the world upside down.

It felt like all he needed to know about Alex, but now he wants more.

And, to his gratefulness and shock, Alexander gives him more.

“I didn’t--” Alexander starts quietly, “I mean, my father left us. When I was 10. In the Indies.”

Alexander slowly wanders over to the bed. He sits next to John and looks at him with uncharacteristic hesitancy.

“And then, two years later, my mother and I . . . we got sick. And I got better.”

“But she . . .”

Alex nods, his eyes falling back to the floor. The room is quiet, much more quiet than any room Alexander’s been in before. John resists the urge to reach out and touch Alexander, to tangle Alexander’s fingers with his own. John forces himself still when all he wants to do is wrap his arms around his friend.

“I’m sorry, Alexander,” John murmurs.

Alex looks up at John with wide eyes. John flushes.

“Thank you, Laurens.”

There’s this . . . discomfort John sometimes feels when he’s talking Alex. John can’t put it another way. He simultaneously feels exposed yet hidden, open yet shut off. John feels like he can tell Alexander everything and mostly has told everything. The only thing he’s never told Alex is the same thing he’s never told anyone--his words.

Right as John’s thinking this, Alex starts fidgeting with his shirt. All of Alex’s shirts are too big now. John’s are, too, but Alex’s are even worse. Alex was already pretty small to being with. And, in Alexander Hamilton fashion, Alex becomes too preoccupied with fixing his shirt to to focus on the conversation at hand, largely because he doesn’t _want_ to finish the conversation at hand. He’d much rather distract himself.

Alex starts to move around and pull at his shirt like a disgruntled child. It’s adorable.

“Alex--Alex! Sit still!” John says with a laugh.

“I _can’t_ ,” Alex whines. “You know I can’t! I have to fix it.”

“Why’d you even notice it to begin with?”

“My collar started to tickle my neck when I looked up at you!” Alex mumbles. He yanks the offending collar back only for it to slowly slide forward again.

“Goodness, Alex,” John says. “You need new clothes.”

“Oh, really?” Alex says teasingly. “You’re not exactly in your best attire, either.”

“Yeah, but at least I’m not so tiny!”

Before Alex can protest, John reaches over and gently folds Alex’s collar for him. Alex goes unusually quiet, watching John carefully. John tries to ignore the feelings of eyes roaming all over his face.

“There,” John says. “Happy?”

“Perhaps I am. Thank you, good sir.”

John snorts and rolls his eyes. He’s about to mention the fact that Alexander is being a child when he notices that Alex’s sleeves are undone and hanging past his hands.

“Oh, let me fix those, too.”

John leans down to fix Alex’s right sleeve. Suddenly, Alex slams his left hand over his right wrist, trapping the too-long fabric underneath.

“I can fix my own _sleeve_ , Laurens! I’m not completely helpless!” Alex says with a laugh, but he looks absolutely petrified.

John tilts his head, confusion painting his face.

“I don’t . . . what’s . . .”

Alex’s left hand twitches and the sleeve moves up a little. That’s when John sees very dark, very, _very_ small words on Alex’s right wrist showing through the thin fabric.

Alex sees John’s eyes and his own go even wider than before.

“Alexander, what’s . . . _oh!_ ”

Alex gapes at John like a dying fish. John levels Alex with the look of a bewildered puppy. Before the moment can get any more worrying, a loud voice interrupts them.

“Hamilton! You’re needed!” General Washington’s booming voice sends a jolt down their spines.

Alex hops off of John’s bed, suddenly excited and jittery.

“I’ll see you tonight, Laurens!” Alex hurriedly calls before disappearing through the door.

John, who barely had time to turn his head, stares at the empty space.

Alex was genuinely afraid of John seeing his words.

John’s mind starts to race without his consent. Alex knows that not to share his words, but that reaction? There had to be something more to that, right? John’s always been reticent about his own words, but that was because of what his implicates.

Could . . could that be Alex’s problem, too? Is there something wrong with Alex’s words?

Moreover, is it the same thing that’s wrong with John’s?

X

There is one undeniable truth that this war has taught John Laurens: Charles Lee has no damn business being the general of _anything_.

As far as John is concerned, Alex has shown _amazing_ restraint. Everyone knows that _he_ should have a command. Even Lafayette’s been grumbling about Washington’s decision to promote Lee, and Lafayette’s the most affable man in the entire Continental Army.

To be honest, John seems more irritated for Alex than Alex is. Even when they’re stationed near Monmouth, sitting in the fields and glaring at Lee, John feels rage rise in a way that Alex doesn’t seem to.

“Yeah, he’s not the choice I would’ve gone with,” Alex says sardonically.

“I just--I don’t understand this!” John shouts in frustration. He knows that others can hear him and doesn’t give a damn, thank you very much.

Alex sighs heavily. He’s still too thin and he’s exhausted. And his command’s been given to an idiot. “I don’t either, but Washington thinks it best.”

John can see the hurt, frustration and feeling of rejection in Alex’s eyes. It almost makes John want to march right up to Washington himself and ask him what the hell his problem is. But John has too much respect for the general--and Alexander--to conduct himself in such a way.

Charles Lee, on the other hand? John wants to smack Charles Lee. He wants to smack him and take joy in the fact that Lee would absolutely squeal like a little girl.

Alex shakes his head and lets out a curt laugh, and, John thinks that Alexander must be reading his mind. Alex takes a piece of cloth and wipes at his forehand: it must be 90 degrees out. The fact that they’re even sitting out here shows that Lee has no idea what he’s doing.

“Maybe Lee won’t be _so_ bad,” Alex says.

John twists around and looks at Alex with a raise eyebrow.

“Um, who are you and what have you done with _my_ Alexander Hamilton?”

“I replaced him with someone who isn’t considering staging a mutiny,” Alex deadpans. “But honestly, Washington must know what he’s doing, right? There shouldn’t be a problem as long as Lee doesn’t get any of us killed.”

John watches Alex for a moment, then turns and glares at Lee’s retreating figure.

“Yeah, you’re right,” John says with a sigh. “You’re right. As long as he doesn’t get anyone killed.”

X

Charles Lee gets people killed.

As a matter of fact, Charles Lee gets _hundreds_ of people killed or nearly killed. And John Laurens and Aaron Burr are among those nearly killed.

To be honest, John’s recollection of getting off of the field during the Battle of Monmouth is shaky at best. He only remembers the beginning of the first phase of fighting. After that, everything starts to get hazy.

John remembers shooting and seeing the smoke of the bayonets rise in his eyes. He remembers falling to the ground a bunch of times. He remembers seeing Alex’s worried and outraged face throughout the battle. At one point, Alex’s face was the _only_ thing John could clearly see.

And then it got _hot_.

And not hot like it was a few days before, when they were scouting and it was 90 degrees out. The temperature rose _at least_ 12 more degrees during the battle. It was like John could physically feel every single degree pouring into his skin.

John remembers being on _fire_ on the inside. He remembers sudden nausea and a burst of pain in his head and stomach. For a moment, he thought he’d been shot, but dying from a gunshot would’ve probably been less tortuous than what was happening to him. John was being cooked.

He remembers . . . falling to his knees. He looked around and saw Aaron Burr lying on the field a few feet away, his head turned in a sickening way.

He heard Alex’s voice calling his name.

And then he heard nothing.

X

“Nothing but water and rest.”

John struggles to open his eyes, but they won’t budge. He feels that the air around him is much cooler than it was outside, but that’s not really saying very much. John tries to sit up, but his body feels like lead.

“He’s going to want to try to get up as soon as possible, but he’s to stay put. Same goes for Burr.”

Burr. Well, at least Burr isn’t dead, John thinks.

“Believe me, they won’t be going anywhere. Thank you.” General Washington’s voice, sounding equal parts concerned and furious, seems to be coming from far above John.

John hears General Washington and the nurse leave the room. Finally, he’s able to fully open his eyes.

He’s in the infirmary, on a very narrow cot. John expected to see rows of men, but it looks like he and Burr are the only occupants aside from a few others. John’s spirit is lifted only for it to be dashed again when he realizes that the infirmary is nearly empty is because so many people have died.

John lifts head and groans loudly. “Staying put” might actually mean just laying completely stationary on this coat.

John hears a very soft, weak chuckle to his right: Burr’s awake. John rolls over to face him and instantly regrets it.

“Hey, you can actually move a little,” Burr says, his voice a croak. “You’re better off than me.”

John forces his eyes to focus on Burr. Burr is shirtless, and the way he has neck turned makes John think that he’s going to end up with a crook. For the first time, John notices how _small_  Burr’s gotten.

“You’re going to have to remind me of what happened, Aaron.”

Aaron sighs, and it looks like it nearly takes all of his energy.

“Heat stroke,” Aaron answers. “Really bad heat stroke. For some reason, you and I didn’t die. But many others . . .”

John remembers what he felt moments before passing out: the feeling of being cooked.

“Did we retreat?” John asks groggily.

“I think . . . it’s more a draw,” Aaron answers. “Lafayette took over from Lee.”

John’s eyes slide shut. “Fuck Charles Lee.”

Aaron laughs softly. John thinks the near death experience seems to have softened him. For now, anyway.

Silence descends on the infirmary. John feels himself falling back to sleep with Aaron hesitantly speaks again.

“Your words,” Burr slowly starts, “they’re . . . they’re kind of funny, aren’t they?”

John jolts awake, and his stomach drops. For a moment, he’s too afraid to remember how exhausted he is..

“You . . . saw them?”

“When I first woke up. I’ve been sleeping off and on, so .  .  .”

John’s unblinking eyes start to burn and he starts to shake all over. Aaron looks at him calmly, like they’re discussing beer.

“They sound kinda familiar,” Aaron mutters. “Like someone I know.”

“Aaron, they’re--I mean--they’re not--” John stammers. “Can you please just--”

“Calm down, John,” Aaron interrupts. “I won’t repeat them to anyone. Gossip isn’t my forte, anyhow.”

John doesn’t want to relax, but he quite literally has no choice. His body goes limp, and his eyes fall shut again.

It feels like an eternity before Aaron speaks again.

“After the war, if you survive . . . what will you do?”

“I . . . don’t know,” John answers slowly, eyes still closed. “I suppose I’ll go into law. Continue abolition. Try not to ruin my father’s name.”

“Will you marry?”

John sighs.

“Marriage” is a question that John’s avoided asking himself and is too tired to ask himself now. When John was a child, he assumed that marriage would be easy; he’d just marry his soulmate. But now . . .

Aaron wisely takes the sigh as John’s answer.

“Can I offer some advice?”

“Has saying ‘no’ ever stopped you before?”

Aaron snorts, and John prepares for the vague, haughtily tone answer he’s grown to expect from Aaron.

That’s not what he gets.

“Laurens, men . . . men that are like _us_ often have to compromise,” Aaron says slowly, his voice growing softer. “And there are far worse things in this world than having to compromise.”

John hears Aaron mumble something else. He opens his eyes to see that Aaron has closed his.

John _wants_ to wake Aaron up, to shake him and demand to know what Aaron means by “men like us.” Instead, he just stares at this man who he realizes that he’s never known half as well as he’d assumed.

Eventually, the stillness of the infirmary and his own body pulls John back into sleep.

X

So if getting nearly _500_ of his own men killed in a failed attack was not bad enough, Charles Lee somehow manages to make everything _worse_.

Usually, men who are relieved of duty know to take responsibility for their actions and accept their penalty. Or, at the very least, they know to _pretend_ to.

But not Charles Lee! When he is relieved of duty, he doesn’t go away quietly. He doesn’t go away at _all_.

Instead, he writes to every member of Congress and practically begs them to listen to him call General George Washington “indecisive” and “unable to to be left alone to his own devices.” He even goes so far to suggest that Washington would be better suited planting tobacco in Mount Vernon.

John wouldn’t believe if he didn’t witness it himself. Because, once again, Charles Lee has said and done all of this _while still living with the rest of the Continental Army_. Where everyone under Washington’s command can see.

Every bit of rage that John had been learning to control starts to creep up again. Lee is an incompetent ass who is stirring up every other incompetent ass. And someone should do something about it.

The day that John has made up his mind, he goes marching into his room to see Alex and General Washington arguing about Lee.

“I’ve told you this before, Alex! I don’t want you to do a _thing!_ ”

Alex squawks and the noise almost makes John less angry.

“But sir! He can’t go around saying things like this!”

“He can technically say whatever he wants, Alexander. It doesn’t mean that he won’t be proven wrong! I just need _you_ to focus on the tasks at hand.”

“I don’t _like_ this, sir.”

General Washington sighs. “I don’t either. But I’m not interested in winning this battle. I want to win the _war_.”

General Washington turns and strides out of the room. He sees John standing by the door and nods at him.

“Glad to see you on your feet, son,” he says.

John mutters a “Thank you sir” and walks over to Alexander.

“I’m sorry, but I just can’t believe this!” Alexander says with quiet intensity. “We’re supposed to just let this slide?”

“This can’t be happening,” John groans. “If Lee’s got such strong words then somebody’s gotta hold him to it!”

“Yeah, well, you heard Washington,” Alex says. “And I can’t disobey direct orders.”

Maybe it’s the way Alex’s voice sounds. Maybe it’s the way Washington sounded when he was talking Alex down. Maybe it’s just the fact that John nearly died on the field.

Or maybe it’s the fact that John would literally do _anything_ for the man standing in front of him and that _that_ thought doesn’t scare him so much, anymore.

Whatever it is, it drives John to make what has to be the most reckless decision he’s ever made in his life.

“Then I’ll do it.”

Alex looks at him and tilts his head in confusion.

“Do, _what_?”

“It. I’ll duel him. That’s what needs to be done. If you can’t do it . . . I’ll do it.”

Alex goes pale and his mouth falls open.

“A-are you crazy?!” Alex demands. “No!”

John _is_ crazy. He has to be to suggest this. But he means it.

John puts both of his hands on Alexander’s shoulders. He can feel Alex shaking underneath them.

“He could kill you,” Alex says, his voice shaking.

John laughs involuntarily. “You ever see him shoot? I’ll be fine.”

“But, John, I--”

“Alexander,” John says firmly, “you’re the closest friend I got.”

Alex goes statute still. His face reddens and he looks at John as if he’s never seen him before. Then he nods.

“Okay.”

X

“I thought you agreed that duels were dumb and immature?”

John doesn’t look back at Aaron as he and Alex talk. John, gun in hands, keeps his eyes trained on Charles Lee and Edward Evans, only a few feet ahead. Evans is technically Lee’s second, but he won’t talk to Alexander. So Aaron’s diplomatically stepped in to try to talk his friends out of this.

He’s failing, by the way.

“Sure,” Alex says, staring at John’s back, “but that man’s got to answer for his word, Burr.”

“With his _life_?” Aaron asks in exasperation. “And John has to risk his? Is there no other way? Can’t we just let this go?”

“No,” John calls over his shoulder to Aaron.

“Aaron, how many died because Lee is inexperienced and ruinous?” Alex demands. “ _You_ almost died because Lee is inexperienced and ruinous!”

Aaron opens his mouth, but then makes a face. Then he sighs deeply.

“So, we’re doing this,” Aaron says.

Aaron jogs over to Evans and Lee to deliver the news. John sets his jaw, staring at Lee’s shocked then determined face.

John feels Alex get closer to him. Alex’s front is almost pressed against John’s back and it’s starting to break John’s concentration.

“I’ll be fine, Alex, I swear,” John says, trying his damnedest to stay facing forward.

“No, I know,” Alex whispers, his voice smaller than John’s ever heard it. “It’s just . . . Laurens, do not throw away your shot.”

X

John has always wondered what exactly happens when your soulmate says those words. And now he knows.

What happens is that something warm unfurls from the pit of your stomach and spreads throughout your body. Your heart falls into your stomach and your stomach falls to your feet, and the world underneath your feet falls away to leave you floating.

And maybe you’ll float away--disappear until oblivion--if it weren’t for the one thing that keeps you on this Earth, the one person that is keeping you standing upright at all.

Alexander Hamilton. John Lauren’s soulmate.

The only reason John hasn't simultaneously burst into tears and wrapped his arms around Alex is because there is a fool standing half a field away, just begging to get shot.

X

Aaron jogs back to them.

“Are you ready?” he demands.

Impulsively, John reaches his free hand back and touches Alex’s. Alex tangles their fingers together.

“Yes.”

X

“Lee! LEE! DO YOU YIELD?!”

“HE SHOT HIM IN THE SIDE, _OF COURSE_ HE YIELDS!”

“I’M NOT ASKING YOU, BURR, I’M ASKING _HIM!_ ”

“ALEXANDER, PLEASE!”

“I YIELD! I YIELD! I’M _DYING!_ ”

“Man, no you’re not! I didn’t shoot to kill you! You’ll be fine!”

“Yo, you won!”

“OWWWWWW!!”

“Oh my _God_!”

“Alright, alright, calm down! Alexander, stop hugging John and help me and Evans get Lee up!”

“Fuck Lee!”

“WHAAAAAAAAAAAT?!?!”

“ALEXANDER!”

X

The only reason that Alexander and John were not immediately dismissed from service is because of the increasing desperation of the Continental Army. It is a fact that they both accept and are grateful for.

Alex and John sit outside of the house, both staring up at the stars. The cool wind makes it hard to believe the heat killed so many of them mere days ago.

Alex closes his eyes and leans his head back, letting the wind caress his face.

John Laurens’s worse nightmare came true today, and he’s too in love to care.  

John Laurens just said he’s in love with Alexander Hamilton--his best friend, fellow aide de camp, and a man--and he’s too grateful to be alive to hate himself for it.

John takes a deep breath. He has no idea what’s about to say, but he figures he _has_ to say it.

“Alexander,” John says softly.

Alex’s eyes flutter open and he looks over at John. John sees nervousness in his eyes and frowns.

“What’s wrong?”

Alex shrugs. “I’m thinking about today. I’m still not over the fact that it actually happened.”

John chuckles. “Me neither.”

“You won’t ever do anything like that for me again, will you?” Alex’s voice is stern, and he looks at John pleadingly. “I can’t afford to nearly lose you all the time.”

John gives Alex an unsure smile.

“I honestly don’t know, Alexander,” he answers. “I mean, I’d do anything for you.”

Alex’s eyes suddenly water, and the distressed look on his face is a punch in the gut to John.

“Alex?” Stress creeps into John’s voice. He reaches for Alex’s hand only for Alex to flinch.

Damn it. Just because _John’s_ accepted how he feels doesn’t mean that Alexander is even remotely ready for this. In fact, it doesn’t mean that Alex can even feel the same way. Alex cares for John--John knows that much. But how can he be sure of how much he cares?

John tries to steady Alex’s gaze, but Alex won’t look at him directly.

“ _Alexander_ , what’s--”

“You said my words.”

John freezes.

“I . . .”

Alex, shaking all over, reaches over and slowly draws his right sleeve up. He holds his wrist up for John to read.

John gently touches and reads. He almost doesn’t allow himself to believe what he’s seeing.

 _Alexander, you’re the closest friend I got_.

John doesn’t know what to feel first: the elation, the fear, raging anxiety. The shock. And maybe John shouldn’t be so shocked. He remembers Alex’s fear, and the way Alex says his name. The way they could speak to each other and know that they were safe. Factually, John knows all of this.

Yet and still, this is different.

Alexander can’t see all that’s going on in John’s eyes. Even in John’s hands, Alex’s wrist trembles.

“I’m sorry,” Alex whispers brokenly. “I’m--I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this. But--but I love you. I think I always have. And I think . . . I knew you’d say my words. From the first time you said my name. But I knew that, for your sake, I couldn’t ever say anything.”

John gapes at Alex’s arm, then Alex’s face again. He knew . . . because of the way he said his name. Just like John knew--no matter how much he tried to deny it.

“John, I,” Alex voice quivers. “If I could change it, make it any easier, I’d--”

“Alex,” John says, with a big, teary-eyed grin, “you said mine, too!”

Alex’s eyebrows shoot up so far that it’s almost comical.

“What?! When?!”

“Just before the duel! ‘Laurens, do not throw away your shot.’ Those are my words. On my left side.”

Alex stammers, searching for words and never finding them. John can’t believed that he just rendered the great Alexander Hamilton silent.

“Alexander. What are you thinking of now?”

“I’m thinking that I want to kiss you, John Laurens.”

John feels the anxious again. This is still illegal. They’re still in the army. They’re sitting outside, where anyone can walk by and see them.

And Aaron’s question. John still thinks of it. He can’t necessarily have the life he wants with Alexander after the war, can he? Aaron said men like them have to compromise. What is that going to look like? Questions and fears start to fill John’s mind.

But then he looks at Alex. And he smiles.

“Then, why don’t you?”

Alex’s face breaks into a devious grin. He grabs the back of John’s neck, and yanks him into a rough, deep, _long_ kiss.

X

There is another truth that the war taught John Lauren: nothing's for certain. Absolutely nothing. John Laurens believed that he was certain of who his soulmate _couldn’t_ be, and he was wrong. Henry Laurens is certain that “Nature” did not intend this for John, and he is wrong. And the entire world seems to be certain of some eternal punishment for men like him. Perhaps, they are wrong, too.

There might not be an “after the war.” Not for any of them. The only thing John can count on is the feeling of Alex’s hand on his neck, the feeling of their foreheads pressed together.

Kissing the one for you--the only one truly made for you--in the middle of the night.


End file.
